


Dangerous Thoughts

by Bearfootscar



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Consolation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantasizing, Fenders, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 21:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bearfootscar/pseuds/Bearfootscar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris has dangerous thoughts.  Fantasies of a shadowy figure slipping into his darkened stolen mansion intent on teaching him that desire can break him.  But when fantasy and reality collide, perhaps his indecision is what will finally break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dangerous Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaptainCritical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainCritical/gifts).



> Written for the dazzling CommanderCritical whose love for Fenders will never be abated.

There are advantages to living in a mansion missing parts of its roof.  For instance, it makes sleepless nights lying alone in a cold bed more palatable.  His day of mucking about in the under city had left his body too weary to light the hearth, and besides, this damnable nagging feeling of tightness in his chest kept him too distracted to feel his own shivers anyway.  

 

The irony of the clenching sensation in his chest was not lost on Fenris. “Crushing my own heart, now am I?” he asked himself aloud.  It was a habit he’d succumbed to after having lived in the quiet of the mansion for so long.  He had once relished the scant few moments of quiet he’d been able to eek out in Danarius’ holdings--any slave would.  It meant the master was not displeased.  That beatings were not imminent and breathing would be allowed for the time being as long as it was done more quietly than the air.

 

But lately, silence left him alone with his thoughts. Dangerous thoughts like the memory of a pink tongue peeking out of slightly parted lips, of meeting that tongue with his own and letting his lips linger where they shouldn't. Dangerous thoughts led to dangerous feelings like the burning in his gut amplified by a quiet, starlit night in a bed unwarmed by another body. So he’d learned to fill the stillness with idle chatter.  "Yes, me. The chatty elf.  Feh."  He waved off his own joke, and the stillness resettled quickly.

 

The sound of his voice filling the quiet usually worked, but tonight the tightening feeling in his chest only intensified rather than ease as the stars winked through the massive hole in the ceiling. They were supposed to quell his racing thoughts, but after what happened in those tunnels, he simply could not let the image of the broken mage escape from his mind and through the shattered roof.

 

Whatever had possessed Hawke to ask him to accompany he and the Abomination was beyond him, but Fenris  had found himself agreeing despite his utter disgust for their task. Half of him thought he might be able to mitigate this impending disaster, but the other half--the part with the dangerous thoughts and the dangerous feelings-- knew spending time with the man would only magnify ideas he’d worked so hard to push down. And when the Mage had revealed the entrance to the sanctum where he'd helped countless others unleash their magic upon Kirkwall, Fenris had been furious. Yet his eyes had still lingered on the Abominations lips as he explained his ridiculous "Mage underground".  He should have been disgusted by his words.  Instead he had found himself yearning to see the pink of his tongue peak out from between his pursed lips.  

 

So, down they had gone to uncover some ridiculous secret plot that even Hawke had seemed dubious about. But they'd found their Templars, chasing an escaped apostate no less, yet he still found his blade in hand when the Mage drew his staff and warmed his magic.

 

Even before the Templars' blood had dried on his armor, he had felt a weight gathering in the air around them.  As one accustomed to shifts in anger leading to blood and bruises, he knew all too well how the air turns palpable before a strike.  The sharp gasp of fear muffled by recoiling and begging was a common sound to his ears, but it still made his throat fill with bile and his knees go weak.  As though caught in a fog, Fenris found himself slowly turning away from the inevitable rending of flesh.

 

But Hawke stepped in as he so often does.  Where Fenris would bite his tongue, Hawke leapt to defend and shooed the girl off before the Abomination released.  It was over before it started, but he still couldn’t breath because Anders was in a heap on the floor and his feet were moving him closer.

 

But again, Hawke stepped in, as Fenris so often fantasized about doing, and helped the Mage to his feet.  His lips were white and his hands violently shaking so that when he mumbled and retreated, Fenris was left just staring in his wake.

 

So, instead of listening to his feet, he found himself yet again cold and alone in a stolen mansion berating himself aloud.

 

“You are a fool,” his voice echoed back at him from stone walls to sound as if twenty men were telling him so, “and a coward.”  The words repeated in his ears long after their echo had faded.

 

“You don’t deserve happiness.” And yet, his eyes settled on the door to his chamber as they had so many nights before, searching the star lit room for a dark figure to emerge while his ears strained for the faintest hint of a shuffled movement on the stairs.

 

After long quiet moments, Fenris’ mind would trick itself into hearing the heavy door slide open downstairs.  A held breath’s moment later, an illusive shadow would make its way into his room and glide across the floor to his side.  His eyes would narrow and squint to make out the figure, but he already knew who had joined him.  The figure smelled of crushed herbs and musty darkness when it grew close enough to catch.  

 

But when he did grow close enough, Fenris would turn away from him and try to retreat so that Anders would catch his hand and paralyze him mid stride.  His hand felt soft in another’s despite its calluses, and his heart beat loudly enough to betray him, to urge the mage on, yet still he would gulp and utter, “You should not have come here.”

 

“I know.” His voice would be low as he gently tugged Fenris to turn and face him.

 

“Release me, Abomination,” Fenris would snarl.  One last jab to chase him away.

 

“No,” he’d whisper as his body slid closer.  “That’s not what you really want,” he would breathe into Fenris’ ear sending shivers to his bare toes.  

 

And that’s when Fenris’ dam would break and he would find his tongue pressing between the other man’s lips searching out the darting pink tongue he’d fantasized about for so many nights. His hands would nestle into the man’s robes, feeling for the warmth of his skin to resuscitate cold fingers while Anders worked the strings of his trousers…

 

He allowed himself this elaborate fantasy far too often, playing it out time and time again so that it left him gasping and sweating in a cold room alone.  Once spent, he would curse himself and his stupidity until he succumbed to a restless slumber.

 

But tonight was different. The fantasy played through, the ritual of self-loathing complete, yet Fenris still felt the tightening in his chest. The clenching would not quit.

 

There was only one thing to do.

 

***

 

He did not believe it were possible, but Darktown smelled even worse at night. The beggars and meagre market stalls were all tucked away for the evening, but the refuse of the city--those who preyed upon the weak and destitute--emerged from the festering corners and festoons about the under city making the air reek of rust and blood.

 

Fortunately, none dared to stop a heavily marked elf with a massive sword, so Fenris made his way easily to the entrance of the clinic where a lone lantern hung extinguished on a hook.

 

Until this point, he’d been singular in his movements: get to Anders.  But now that he was here, he faltered at the thought of saying--or doing--something upon entering. Every Tevine invective gurgled at the back of his tongue until he heard himself growling aloud.  He was about to turn on his heel and berate himself all the way back to Hightown, when a faint sound from behind the door stopped him in his tracks.

 

His ears twitched and strained to make out the murmuring.  Breath held, he could hear a rhythmic chant of “trash…...trash…...keep…...trash….”  He swallowed hard as he pushed open the door.

 

Anders was crouched over a small box in the corner of the empty clinic. The click of the door did nothing to distract him from its contents, so Fenris moved carefully across the floor towards him.  As he drew near, he could see that the mage was more disheveled than usual--his hair tousled and matted still with dried Templar blood, hands ashen and shaking and voice quivering as the monotonous chant continued.  

 

Fenris had seen this kind of behavior once before when a fellow slave in Danarius’ keep had been kept in the pens too long alone and in the dark. When finally released, the pent up elf had taken only a few steps before crumpling into a pile of babbling and rocking which no one had been able to shake him from.  He had been dragged off by a guard never to be seen again. Fenris thought often of this elf when he questioned his own limits, had thought he too might break, and it both steeled his resolve and weakened his knees. To be faced with it again like this… it was unnerving to say the least, and left him gawking at the man’s behavior until the sorting came to a sudden end.

 

“I’m leaving,”  the mage said, barely a whisper from a ragged throat.

 

Fenris wanted to answer him, but he found himself caught somewhere between a vivid memory and a crumpling reality.

 

“I almost killed that girl.” Anders bowed his head between his knees so that he looked even smaller and more broken than before.

 

Fenris wished he had the conviction to extend his hand and resit on the man’s shoulder, longed to utter words--any words--but all he could think was where is Hawke?  He was not the one who fixed these things, Hawke was. Hawke was always there to leap to their aid, say the right things so that even he parted ways with a lightness in his chest. But right now, the two of them were alone and it was either him, or….no.  It would have to be him.

 

He swallowed down the bile and willed his body under his control again so that he could kneel beside him. As he lowered himself to the ground, he could hear Anders ragged breath suddenly hold. His head turned slightly towards him and flinched when Fenris brought his hand to rest on the other man’s back. His gut twisted sickeningly with the thought that maybe the berating voice had been right all along, that Anders was disgusted by him, that he was a fool and had misread- blonde hair shifted and he turned his gaze up toward him. Fenris expected eyes of loathing, but instead was met with pleading.

 

“I have no where to go.”

 

_Go?_

 

_Don’t go!_

 

_Stay._

 

_….with me…._

 

His mind screamed at him, but his lips would not comply.  The clinic was so quiet that he could hear Ander’s tears plink off the stone floor.

 

“It was a mistake to come here,” Fenris muttered and broke their gaze to stand up, but as he turned to flee, Anders caught his hand.  

 

“You don’t mean that,” his grip tightened on his hand.  It was more a question than a statement, but the echo of his daydream rang loudly in Fenris’ mind.  

 

So, like a well-rehearsed actor, he found his lips forming the words, “release me, Abomination.”

 

“No.” Inextricably, Fenris’ feet did not move him towards the door, but instead let Anders keep his hand clasped around his own.

 

He couldn’t stop himself from looking in the man’s eyes, even though he knew it would mean his capture. Locked in his gaze, Anders pulled himself to his feet and stood close to him, so close he could feel the trails of his breath against his flesh where it eddied and tickled warmly. He leaned in close so that when the words escaped Fenris’ lips, he could feel Anders quiver.

 

“I have been waiting for this.”

 

Anders’ brought his hand up to his face and he found his hands moving up to the man’s back where his feathery robes tickled at his lyrium.  His lips parted ever so slightly and Fenris was able to make out the tiniest hint of pink tongue before their lips came together. The warmth of his touch sent sparks through his tattooed flesh, but when Anders’  tongue parted his lips and flicked against the tip of his own tongue, all sense and reason was abandoned. He was semi-conscious of pleasure noises echoing off the clinic walls, but all he could bring himself to care for was how Anders’ hands were moving slowly down his chest.  

 

His lips were being caressed by the other man’s so gently, so patiently. Fenris had never thought such tenderness possible. He parted his lips wider and allowed him further entry while the rest of his body pressed against Anders eagerly. His hands found the tousle of knotted hair and he tried to entangle his fingers in it, but he had forgotten the matted blood, and the mage hissed at the unexpected pain.  

 

Their lips woefully retreated, and when Fenris reopened his eyes, he saw the return of fear in the other man’s gaze. He extracted himself from his embrace and pulled into himself, crossed his arms and looked to the clinic floor.

 

“I...I should go.” Anders turned away towards the box of belongings so carefully sorted.

 

“But,” he found his voice, “we have only just begun.”

 

Anders paused mid crouch to look back at him, his eyes shiny with water and twinkling with longing.

 

“I’ve been waiting so long…”

 

“As have I.  Do not leave.”  

 

With the slightest of nods, Anders put the box back down and met Fenris halfway.

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal thanks to the ever-delightful and brilliant LIlou88 for her immensely helpful feedback.


End file.
